     ^This is an excerpt from an upcoming story that will eventually find
     its way to YARF! (I would expect it to start appearing sometime toward
     the end of 1991).  As of this writing it's not finished, and this is
     only the first draft of part (about two-thirds, so okay, a large part)
     of the first chapter.  Think of this as a devious ad for YARF! if
     you'd like.  Incidentally, this is a sequel to an earlier story called
     "A Gift of Fire, a Gift of Blood" which appeared in YARF! issues #5-8
     (still available for backorder, I think), although those who haven't
     read the first story shouldn't have any trouble following this one.
     Currently I don't have a copy of "Gift of Fire" on either an MS-DOS
     disk or a TRSDOS one (yes, I normally write on a TRS-80 Model 4, so
     sue me for being obsolete) and so it isn't available for downloading
     anywhere.  But that's okay, since if you actually buy the back issues,
     you get Zjonni's illustrations with it.  YARF!'s address is: P.O. Box
     1200, Cupertino, CA 95015-1200.]
 
 
                                 THE LIGHTHOUSE
                             (c) 1991, Watts Martin
 
        The dock seems somehow colder than the wind, and pulling the cloak
     tighter offers no protection from damp wood and iron nails.  I am
     dressed too lightly for the weather here; none of the dock workers or
     the tourists have their legs and arms exposed.  Fur is little comfort
     against the chill.
        I am sitting on the edge of the dock, facing out to sea.  Ocean
     goes on forever, the horizon smoldering with dusk's embers.  The dock
     is empty but for humans and seagulls, all of whom give me a wide
     berth; the most daring ones, a child and his mother, are on the
     opposite corner of the dock's end.
        A hundred yards to my left a sailing ship, moored at another dock,
     prepares for a long journey.  Would they be willing to accept another
     passenger?  Even if they would, they might not take me.  I tend to
     make people uncomfortable.  I could try and make the trip myself, of
     course--just one leap.  Would I tire before reaching land?  ...If I
     did, perhaps it would be for the best.
        The alcohol must be wearing off.  Some more bourbon and my mood
     won't improve--it's been this way for a week and will only get
     worse--but I'll be less likely to notice it.
        I want to kill something.  Something small and cute.
        Standing up, I stretch, then gather the cloak around me even more
     tightly, flipping the hood up as best I can--it was built for a human
     head, and I'll be damned if I'm going to bend my ears all to hell to
     make them fit.  I walk about ten steps when a cracking noise, screams
     and splashes come from behind me.
        The far corner of the dock isn't there anymore.  The mother is on
     the broken edge, kneeling and wailing, but the child is nowhere to be
     seen.  No, there he is, drifting past the dock.  As more people point
     and yell, some racing back along the dock's length to go for ropes and
     life preservers, I see he is not drfiting.  He is caught in an
     undertow.
        By the time these idiots get back with a rope, he'll be far out of
     range.  In fact, he already is.  I walk back to the edge of the dock,
     staring; now the mother is next to me.
        Well, there's nothing else to be done for it.  "Stand back," I say
     to her, throwing off my cloak and leaping off the dock, wings
     outstretched.  She may have screamed when she saw me, but it could
     have been my imagination.  She was already screaming anyway.
        I quickly glide toward the child.  Can I grab him with my feet?
     Twenty feet away--maybe--\grab\--damn.  I splash down gracelessly next
     to him.  So much for a flawless rescue.
        He is too surprised to react when I scoop him against me with one
     arm and start paddling back to the dock.  After he has caught his
     breath, he looks up at me.  "Are you a monster?" he asks in a small
     voice.
        "A good monster," I reply seriously.  I may be lying--at least
     about being good.  I'm strong enough to fight the current, but just
     barely.  The dock seems awfully far away.
        "Why aren't you flying?"
        "I can't," I say, taking a ragged breath and surging forward, "take
     off," another surge, "from water."  The dock is closer and I'm getting
     very, very tired.  "Hang on."  Another surge and the dock is much
     closer now.  There's a rope hanging from it.  Swimming with wings
     hurts.
        One more push--the rope is in front of me.  "Grab it," I gasp.  The
     child does so.  Whoever is holding the other end immediately starts
     pulling it up.
        "Wait for the monster," he yells up at the dock.  The rope is too
     high above me; with a final effort I latch onto one of the dock's
     pilings, the claws of both hands digging deep into the
     barnacle-encrusted wood.
        After an eternity of staring up at the dock, too weak to move, the
     rope starts coming back down in hesitant jerks.  As I lean out from
     the pole, wondering if I have enough strength left to grasp it when it
     comes close, there is another crack, much softer--a wet tearing noise.
     Suddenly I am underwater.
        I struggle back to the surface with energy I didn't know I had
     left, but by the time I take in a breath of air and cough up water the
     dock is receding rapidly.  My claws are buried in a piece of rotting
     wood, a chunk of the piling barely as big as my hands.  Now the people
     on the dock are pointing at me, still dancing around like idiots.
        The wood makes a piss-poor float, but it's all I've got.  I don't
     have the strength to fight to stay afloat, so I settle on fighting to
     stay awake.  I bob under the surface again and come up spluttering.
     Something looms on the horizon.  I hope it's very close.  Water washes
     over me again, and this time the wood and I don't seem to be coming
     back up quickly enough.
        There's something horribly unfair about this.  I wanted to kill
     something cute, but no, I had to go and rescue something instead
     and...  Being nice always did get me into trouble.
        My, what a pretty fish that is.
 
                                       #
        Tea.  Very strong tea.
        I've never believed in an afterlife, but if there is one, serving
     tea after you wake from the dead would be a nice thing for the gods to
     do.
        The smell of tea is all there is for a few seconds, or perhaps
     hours.  Then it is joined by pain.  A lot of pain.  This confirms that
     I'm still alive in this world: I can feel all of my body, because all
     of it hurts.
        Finally, there is yellow.  The yellow is the air at first, then it
     is light in the air.  Then it is light coming from a lantern
     somewhere, casting flickering shadows on the wooden ceiling I am
     staring at.
        I'm on a bed, a sheet pulled up to my neck.  I am lying on one of
     my wings.  Next to me, to my left, is a small table, with the lantern
     on it.  Beside the table is a chair.  I think.  If it's there, it is
     completely hidden by the bear sitting in it.
        He's easily four times my size, brown fur shot through with grey,
     black eyes the same color as the buttons on his overcoat.  He is
     holding out a cup of tea.  "If you're strong enough to take it," he
     growls in what I hope is a friendly manner.
        I tell one of my arms to move up and grab the mug's handle.  It
     responds by sending shooting pains down my spine.  "I'm not," I
     whisper after a moment.  "Give me... a minute."
        "I expect moving anything will hurt for a few weeks, ma'am," he
     says, smiling.  "The rocks you washed up on have sunk ships in the
     past; it's only through the grace of God you're in as good condition
     as you are."
        I look down at myself as best I can, shaking off the sheets gently.
     I can feel many more bruises than I see, but I've been cut in a dozen
     visible places--and there's a rip in my left wing, oozing pus.  A
     hole.  A fucking \hole.\  "Don't believe in God," I whisper.
        He laughs.  "If you've ever considered changing your mind, ma'am,
     now would be a most excellent time.  Looks like that needs cleaning
     again.  Third time in the last few hours."  He stands and lumbers over
     to a dresser on the other side of the room, returning with a damp
     cloth.  He wipes the wing wound clean; whatever is on the cloth
     tingles sharply, but doesn't hurt.  Or maybe I just can't notice the
     pain through all the other aches competing for my attention.  "Sorry I
     haven't done more for you," he rumbles on, "but truth be known, I
     don't know a blessed thing about handling a wound like that."
        "It's all right."  As long as the pieces are held together, it will
     mend, and there's not a lot of blood in a wing to lose.  I grit my
     teeth and reach for the tea, ignoring the pain.  The taste is worth
     it.  When I look up again, the bear is gone.
        The room is small, with a window over a desk opposite the bed.
     There are two doors, one presumably to a bathroom and the other
     leading outside, and a half-wall separating this office/bedroom from
     what I'm guessing is the kitchen.  A narrow, steep stairway leads up.
     The sound of the ocean is close by.
        The bear reappears from the kitchen carrying a steaming basket of
     fried something.  He sets it down on the bedside table.  "Onion
     rings?" he inquires.
        I stare into the basket.  Yes, they certainly are.  I look back up
     at him and shake my head negatively.
        "I almost live on these," he says, reaching into the basket.  "I
     make them pretty good, if I do say so."
        "How long have I been here?"
        "Oh, I'd say about nine hours.  It's about an hour past firstchime;
     I found you just after sunset."
        "How far am I from Raneadhros?"
        "You're still in it, but you're a distance from the city proper.
     About five miles from the main docks."
        So I drifted five miles?  "Is this the lighthouse at Weryse Point?"
        "That it is.  I'm John, the lightkeeper."
        I close my eyes.  "Thank you, then, John."
        "For what?  Oh.  Don't worry about it.  I'm sure you would have
     done the same for me."
        I nod weakly.  Of course, I'd have ended up getting screwed by fate
     if I had saved him.
        "Well, you should probably get some more rest.  Except for that
     wing puncture, you've come through pretty much intact.  Later today, I
     guess, we'll take you into town to get someone who knows what they're
     looking at to see you."
        "I can't afford a doctor."
        "Don't worry about that, either," he says, smiling.  "You get paid
     more than you'd think to sit here and watch a light go 'round, and I'm
     not the sort who can find much to spend it on.  You should just go
     back to sleep, uh...?"  His eyebrows are raised inquiringly.
        "Revar."
        He nods approvingly.  "You should go back to sleep for a bit,
     Revar."  He heads toward the staircase, carrying his basket of onion
     rings.
        A few steps up, he pauses and turns to face me.  "Uh, may I ask you
     a stupid question, ma'am?"
        "If you'd like."
        "What the hell are you?"
        "A vampire bat."
        "Oh."  He raises his eyebrows again, but makes no other comment
     before heading up the stairs.  I pass into sleep before the sound of
     his steps fades away.
                                       #
        The doctor doesn't know much more about wing wounds than John, but
     is damned if he's going to admit it.  His eyes are wide when John's
     speaking to him, and get slightly wider when he sees me.  I'd smile
     disarmingly at him if I knew how.
        "A bat, are you?" the doctor says, looking at the wing hole rather
     than my eyes.
        "No, I'm a fanged koala."
        He smiles.  "Right."  His little fox tail is held like he's
     considering holding it between his legs and running out of the room.
     He looks back up at John for a second, his expression slipping as he
     tries to decide which one of us should make him more nervous: the bear
     is three times his size, but I've got fangs, claws and generally look
     predatory.  I bet he doesn't do very well when he has to look at
     tigers.
        "This doesn't look very serious," he mumbles for the second time,
     dabbing some cleanser on it.  "It'd be a bad idea to bandage it."
        "Yes," I agree, stifling the sarcastic retort that springs to mind.
     I shouldn't deliberately terrorize people, but when you can almost see
     a little sign floating over them saying "ABUSE ME" it's difficult not
     to.
        "Well."  He produces a smooth, black ball from a pocket and presses
     it against the hole.  "This might sting a bit," he says as I suck in
     my breath sharply and frantically check to see if my wing is on fire.
     The ball is glowing purple, and little streaks of blue sparks
     criss-cross the wound.  "This should repair most of the tissue damage.
     A scab should form in an hour or two, and as long as you let it alone
     it'll drop off in about two weeks."  He removes the ball, aod I watch
     the blue sparks grow less frequent and finally stop as he continues.
     "It'll probably be sore for the rest of the day, but you shouldn't
     notice it by morning."
        "Hopefully I'll be asleep tomorrow morning."  The hole is closed,
     with an unpleasant, ragged scar in its place.  The fire is still
     there, although not as painful.
        "Um."  The fox looks hesitant.  "Um.  Yes.  Are your eyes bothering
     you?"
        "What?"
        "You're squinting."
        "I'm not used to being up in bright daylight.  I'm nocturnal."
     Moron.
        "Right," he mumbles, pushing a forelock of hair back into place.
        "I'll take care of the bill," John says, immediately attracting the
     fox's attention.
        I look up from the wing when John rests his hand on my shoulder.
     That was fast--no, I must have been staring at the scar for the last
     five minutes.
        "Are you going to be all right, ma'am?" he says in his gravelly
     voice.
        I stand up, folding my wing back carefully.  "I'll be fine."
        "Oh."  He fidgets, looking uncomfortable, and turns away, shuffling
     toward the door.
        "When do you have to be back at the lighthouse?"
        "Dusk.  I reckon about four more hours."
        Come on, you know you have the money--you have enough to last at
     least three more weeks.  I walk over to him, reach up and take his
     hand, leading him out the door.  "I'm going to take you to lunch."  He
     looks surprised, then a little nervous.  Is he looking at my fangs?
     "Buy you lunch, not have you for lunch," I say, tugging at him.
        "Oh, that wasn't what I was thinkin'--I mean, you don't have to
     do--"
        "You saved my life.  Buying you a sandwich somewhere is hardly
     compensation as it is."
        He sighs, shaking his head in apparent acquiescence.  "You have a
     strong grip, ma'am."
        "I have to be strong enough to hold things that don't want me that
     close."
        "I suppose so."  He frowned, then shook his head, smiling.  "Well,
     as long as you don't bite friends."
        Only strangers and enemies and someone I fell in love with....
     When John's breath hisses out, I realize I've clenched my fist without
     remembering his hand was in it.  "Sorry," I say curtly.
        He nods, but watches me carefully.  I change the subject.  "Where
     should we eat?"
        "Hmm."  He scratches his head with his free hand.  It occurs to me
     that when he was my age, this bear must have cut quite a dashing--and
     imposing--figure.  Did he ever marry?  No--he hasn't asked about my
     past, even though he must have just wondered about it.  Don't pry into
     his.  "The Baywater Inn is right nice.  Quiet, good food."
        And hopefully cheap.  "Lead the way, then."
        If a vampire bat and a tabby cat would have made an odd sight
     walking down a street hand-in-hand, a bat and a six-foot-six tall,
     three-foot wide bear in dress blues walking down a street holding
     hands must make something to tell your children about over dinner.
     People in Raneadhros aren't as skitterish about me as I'm used
     to--perhaps they are more used to uncommon 'morphs.  Maybe, like John,
     they don't recognize me as a vampire.  In any case, about half the
     people we pass on the crowded streets John leads me down turn and
     watch us; we are probably responsible for a hundred missed
     appointments by the time we reach the restaurant.
        The streets are narrower, the buildings taller and set closer
     together than they should be.  The "Baywater Inn" is set in a brick
     storefront on the corner of a side street I don't recognize and a main
     street that I do.  I was at a pub a few streets down from here last
     night.  Or the night before that?  Yes, the night before that.  Last
     night I was drowning.
        It is a nice restaurant.  Each table is lit by a gas lantern
     hanging from the ceiling; I've always liked that effect more than
     standard glow crystals.  A brightly lit rock stuck behind amber glass
     doesn't look like a flame, it looks like a brightly lit rock behind
     glass.  The tables are dark cherry wood, varnished so many times that
     they have little to fear from spilled coffee.  They might deflect a
     hand-axe.
        A little ocelot waitress leads us to a table against the wall.  She
     walks and smiles in a way that she probably thinks makes her look more
     attractive; she's been doing it for long enough that it's become
     automatic rather than mere affectation.  How much of the rest of her
     is like that?  I've met people who were all affectation--strip away
     everything that they do to look more attractive, or more intelligent,
     or more witty, or more consciously "different," and they'd be lost.
     And they never see that the personality they've fabricated only
     succeeds at being mournfully pathetic.
        After we sit down, she starts to recite the menu.  Three seconds
     into it and John stops her.  "I'd like the glazed chicken breast,
     ma'am."  The ocelot hasn't mentioned poultry dishes yet.
        "Baked potato?"
        "Yes.  With a dash of sour cream.   And a cup of your cream of
     mushroom soup, if you still make it."
        "Very good.  And you?"  She turns to me.
        "Give me the rest of your menu."
        "All right."  She continues reciting.
        "The garlic-fried vegetables, a basket of black bread, and some Red
     Orinthe tea.  And a cup of cream of mushroom."  The ocelot blinks
     confusedly, but makes no comment other than nodding and scurrying
     attractively off to the kitchen.
        "Vegetarian?" John inquires.
        "I haven't had much appetite for meat lately."
        "I never could see living just on vegetables."  The bear is
     nervously fidgeting with his hands on the tabletop.  "Although I guess
     that's not what you do live on."
        "I can't live on blood alone, either."
        "But... vegetables?"  He looks mildly distressed, more about the
     idea of eating a vegetable than drinking blood.
        "It'll be a nice change from alcohol."  Blood and bourbon.  This
     might be my first real meal since... since I came to Raneadhros?
     Surely I've eaten something solid in the last week.
        Silence falls, an awkward haze settling around the table.  I hear
     the voice of a unicorn at a bar a few nights ago, speaking into a
     silence just like this one: "A lull in conversation occurs every seven
     seconds."
        "What?"  John looks up at my chuckle.
        "Nothing."  He smiles and continues to fidget, now twiddling his
     thumbs clumsily.  I am making him nervous, but somehow I know it is
     not because of my species.  "What's wrong, John?"
        "Hm."  He straightens an imaginary tie and drops his hands to his
     lap, looking directly at me with a conscious effort.  "I'm sorry.
     It's just, well, ...hm."  He lets his eyes follow his hands.  "This is
     the first time I've been out in public with a woman for a long time."
        "You're afraid people will talk about you and that scantily-clad
     flying fox?"
        "No," he says quickly.  "I suppose this really can't be called a
     date."  He looks around, then at me, then down at the table again,
     laughing self-consciously.  "I'm sorry, ma'am--"
        "Every time you call me that I feel another hundred furs turn grey.
     Call me Revar.  And don't apologize for me making you nervous."
        "It's not you, it's me.  I'm making me nervous."  The waitress
     returns with our drinks and soup and John lapses into silence,
     starting to fidget again.
        "Why?" I ask.
        The bear looks across at me and cocks his head, looking confused.
        "Why is being with me making you nervous?  I'm used to making
     people nervous because of being a vampire bat--not because of being
     female."
        He lets out a long, rumbling sigh.  When he starts to speak, his
     growl is modulated to a faint rumble.  "When I used to come here with
     Marilyn we usually got the glazed chicken.  She did, I mean.  I would
     get the steak--always cooked medium well, coated with white
     peppercorns.  She'd always chide me for being unimaginative, but I
     always liked the steak."  He chuckles, then his eyes grow distant.  "I
     guess I've ordered this ten years too late."
        "How long were you married?" I ask softly.
        He looks surprised, then smiles sadly.  Filling in the blanks
     didn't take a mindreader.  "Twenty years."
        He is silent until the dinner arrives, but begins to tell me about
     Marilyn as he eats.
        She was a human.  (I have trouble picturing a human woman, barely
     more than a head taller than myself, making love to the huge bear, but
     keep the images to myself.)  Together they ran a fishing boat, a
     fairly successful business.  In truth, much of his reminiscing bores
     me, but he speaks with a love that has not grown the least faded after
     ten years.  It is depressingly romantic.
        She died in a boating accident; he does not go into details.  A
     half-year later he sold the boat.  A few months after that, the
     lighthouse position became open, and he's been there ever since.
        He is telling me he hopes she's happier where she is now, now that
     she is "free."  I've never understood the attraction of most
     religions, and the one he is speaking of--the most popular one in all
     the Empire, albeit fragmented into various smaller and larger groups
     constantly squabbling over the true teachings of their
     "creator"--makes less sense to me than most.  I nod politely.
        "You really don't believe in God, do you?" he asks.  "You don't
     believe in the Freedom."
        One step beyond nice euphemisms for death: making death itself seem
     nicer than living.  "I think we're already free, John."
        He shakes his head.  "I can't believe this life is all there is."
        I take a sip of tea.  "This life is enough," I say simply.
        He finishes the last bite of his chicken.  "I didn't mean to turn
     the conversation to an uncomfortable topic," he says, his tone
     apologetic.
        "You didn't.  Although you don't want to try and convert me."
        He raises his eyebrows at the phrasing, but nods.  Two years ago I
     met a self-appointed holy man who tried to save me from the "endless,
     hollow cycle of physical existence" I was doomed to unless I believed
     the way he did.  He did teach me that the problem with those who know
     The Truth is that they refuse to take "no" for an answer, no matter
     how strongly worded.  He had disappointingly thin blood.
        "Have you been in Raneadhros long?"
        Hmm?  "No.  A week."
        "Come to visit, or are you planning to live here?"
        "I'm really not sure."  I smile.  I really don't care.  John's
     expression is expectant, waiting for me to continue.  Dammit.  I don't
     want to talk about this.  "I... just had to move somewhere."
        "Well, I reckon this is as good a somewhere as most others you can
     name.  You choose Raneadhros just because it was the capital?"
        I stir my tea with a claw; it has no sugar in it.  "I came here
     because... I don't know.  I told someone this would be the next place
     I went."
        "Going to meet her here, then?"
        "Him.  And no."  I drain the mug of tea quickly.  "He's dead."
        John watches me impassively from under his huge, bushy eyebrows.  I
     look away; if I meet his eyes, I am afraid I will find pity there, and
     my reaction would be far harsher than the bear deserves.  "If you want
     to talk, my ear might not be the most intellectual, but it's
     sympathetic," he harrumphs after a moment.  I hear the sound of him
     lifting his own glass.
        "There's not much to say."  I am almost whispering, but I couldn't
     be louder if I tried.
        "Solid black eyes and big sharp teeth don't make your face so alien
     that this old sailor can't tell you're lying, m... Revar."
        But I don't want to talk about it, dammit.  I draw my wings around
     me and remain silent.
        "You're the first person I've talked about Marilyn to in a good
     five years.  I don't rightly know that it gets easier with each
     telling, but each one somehow helps me, I think.  Stories are meant to
     be told."
        "You sound like a writer."
        He smiles.  "Almost was one, but never really saw the point.  I'd
     just tell stories to a few people I thought might like them 'stead of
     snubbing them to try and make a living writing for lots of people who
     didn't want to hear my voice anyway."
        I laugh in spite of myself.  "I don't have a story for this.  I
     only knew Mika for a few months.  He was a spotted tabby, about
     five-eight.  We met when I..."  Hmm.  "It wasn't under ideal
     circumstances.  I scared the hell out of him."
        "Oh, you're not that intimidating."
        Now that's something I don't get told often.  "I was holding him on
     his knees, threatening to rip his throat out with my claws."
        "Doesn't sound like a productive way of making friends, ma'am."
        Poof!  A hundred more grey furs.  "Making friends wasn't the
     point," I snap.
        "Then what happened?"
        "I'm... not sure.  He went looking for me, so I found him."  I see
     Mika's apartment around me, smell of Garanelt coffee surrounding
     comfortable beanbags that I have to arrange my wings just so to sit
     in.  "He was... easy to talk to.  I don't talk very easily."
        The bear nods.  I'm not talking easily now.  "We didn't have very
     much in common.  But there was--he had something, a spark he kept
     hidden.  Sometimes I could get him to let it shine, and it was
     beautiful...."
        Snippets of conversation echo back, floating in front of still
     images.  His portrait of me.  It made me look much prettier than I am.
     "We weren't lovers... but we weren't just friends."
        "At risk of sounding religious, it sounds like you were what some
     call 'soulmates,'" John says.
        "Maybe."  I look across at him, meeting his eyes for the first time
     since he dragged me into this conversation.  "I did fall in love with
     him, though."
        "Was he in love with you?"
        He died because of it.  I nod, not trusting my voice.
        "What happened?"
        You don't...  The bar fills with mist.  Deep breath.  "I killed
     him.  I was... dying in a prison.  They wouldn't give me blood.  He
     rescued me and I killed him."
        When the mist clears, John is still watching me silently,
     impassively.  "Well?" I finally say.
        "I'm waiting because you're not finished," he says softly.
        Yes, I am.
        "He knew you were dying?"  I nod again.  "He wanted you to take his
     blood, didn't he?"
        "Does it matter?  He didn't \want\ me to kill him."
        John looks down, sighing.
        "We should probably go."  I rise too quickly; John gets up and
     takes my hand.  He insists on leaving the tip.

